Ritual
by Nyah
Summary: Most of life’s rituals are a sign of faith, worship, respect. A doctor’s rituals are signs of weakness. HouseCuddy Friendship


**Summary:** Most of life's rituals are a sign of faith, worship, respect. A doctor's rituals are signs of weakness. House/Cuddy friendship

**Author's Note**: Hi folks, if you're one of my regular readers (I am extraordinarily flattered to have a few of those) you probably know I'm going to be away for several months and the likelihood of stories being produced in that time is practically nil. So- I'm making an effort to get a short piece or two out before I set off. I know it's my comedies you guys appreciate but I seem to have developed an addiction to drama- thanks for bearing with me anyway. As always, feedback will be treasured, especially constructive criticism since this one is underdeveloped at best- expect an edit shortly.

**Ritual**

**Dr. Lisa Cuddy**

I enjoy my job. I'm proud of what I do. But I'd by lying if I said I didn't get a stab of excitement and relief every time I turn my car key in the ignition to go home. Today was no different. I'd had a headache all day. It'd made the complaints of the board members all the more grating and the hospital smell nauseating as it hadn't been in twenty years.

But as my car's engine roared to life and hummed merry tunes of warm baths and acetylsalicylic acid, I saw House's motorcycle, still parked in its handicap space. And then, almost before I knew it, I was back in the elevator, going up.

House was in his office. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed this because the only light in there came from a computer display –that and he was lying on the floor. I've known House a long time- longer than I've been a doctor- and I've seen him do this- lay on the floor, keep a vigil- more than a few times. That's why I expected the look he gave me when I knocked on the door. It was surprised- but even more rare than Greg House looking surprised is the other part of it- Greg House looking just a little bit hurt.

See, every doctor I've ever known has had rituals. Some doctors snap the fingers on their rubber gloves in a precise order. Some wash their faces and crack their necks. Some surgeons eat the same meal before an especially difficult procedure, the meal they'd eaten the last time a patient lived. Some count their tools _ad nauseum_. Some pray. And I'm sure, somewhere in the hospital, there's someone with lucky underwear.

Most of life's rituals are a sign of faith, worship, respect. A doctor's rituals are signs of weakness. And House- House is a man who walks with a cane. He has moments of weakness by virtue of the former and has to confront this fact every minute of his life by virtue of the latter. So usually I look away when he does this. I usually just walk right on by.

And now I'm looking, peering right through the glass at him while he performs his own private rite. I've broken our unspoken agreement and he's surprised and he's hurt. I almost turned around right then, I almost left so that tomorrow we could pretend it never happened. "You're here late," I said instead.

"Oh, I didn't know you were still here _Cameron_," he said sarcastically because he knew that she was the kind of doctor I'd always avoided becoming. Too involved, too emotional, too female.

"Okay it's not the anniversary of your infarction or when Stacy left, your patient didn't die today and the Yankees aren't doing so hot so you're going to have to help me out here."

"Wow this blows everything I'd heard about Jews and foreplay out of the water! No 'Do you want to talk' or 'What's on your mind'…."

"I was angry about – _Mozart Boy_," I said by way of explanation that was really no explanation but I trusted that he'd understand anyway. "You crossed a line." _You invaded my privacy. And you made me second guess myself. And I hope you know how grateful I am because I'll probably never tell you. _"But you did something good for me today," I could admit that much, I could tell him he was right _that far_, "and you know how 'paying it forward' worked out for that kid from _The Sixth Sense_."

I left it at that. And maybe there was something to his naming me Cameron because after a few moments of silence he said, "I hired Foreman two years ago today." He was staring at the ceiling. I should have known. I should have remembered. "Why did you ask me to put a team together Cuddy?"

He already knew my answer but I said it anyway, "Because you're the best."

"And why didn't you ask me for a squirt of my baby juice?"

"I don't follow…"

"Come on, I know you thought about it."

_My mind, scrambling to figure out how his questions were related, had me answering without my consent. _"I know you don't want children."

"Why?"

"Well you're miserable for one thing," I was being too candid maybe but it was nothing he didn't already know. "You're brilliant. _Everyone_ knows that. But you just don't like yourself enough to want more of –_you- _out there."

"Exactly," he said like he'd clarified everything.

I started to tell him that he wasn't making any sense when I realized he was making too much sense. "I said I told you to put together a team because you're the best but that wasn't really my whole answer."

"No it wasn't." The edge had all but disappeared from his voice and right then I could have been talking to a completely different person. I'd only really understood for the first time this afternoon why Wilson stuck around- House took care of people he cared about even if it made them hate him. And now, for the first time I caught a glimpse of the reason why Cameron was so determined to love him. "It should have been 'Because you're the best and I want you to make them just like you.'"

"Yes."

"I'm damn good at what I do, Dr. Cuddy. I'm doing exactly what you wanted."

"I think you've been watching too many soaps House. That's a little dramatic, even for you."

"Is it?" He wasn't rising to the bait. He wasn't taking my offer to set aside this uncomfortably serious introspection. "I call them my 'team' but they're not a team. They were never meant to _be_ a team. And if they ever become a team then I'll have failed. Because that would mean they rely on each other and next year when their fellowships are up they won't be able to go off into the world in three different directions as little versions of me.

"I could be _nice_ to them and encourage them to reach for the stars," his voice hit a pitch that indicated exactly how he felt about _that_ idea, "and then at the end we could all celebrate three years of our lives that we wasted _together_." The uncharacteristic gut-spilling must have gotten to be too much because House started making shadow puppets in the dim light from his computer. "Isolation," he said ruefully, "is the real key to success."

He was right of course, about everything. Foreman, Cameron and Chase were smart. There were probably less than a million people in the world that were naturally as smart as they were and maybe a hundred thousand of those had received an education. When compared to the seven _billion_ people in the world, those three were rare commodities. But House? If you wanted to find peers for House, the pool dropped to bare thousands.

He was a product of his own cynical view of the world. Isolation was probably as essential as his naturally brilliant mind to the development of his genius. He'd been alone all through his own training because no one could keep up with him. He had never been able to depend on someone else coming up the answer and saving his patient because if he couldn't, no one could.

"A person who's alone," House's shadow puppets were attacking each other now, "is always off balance."

"And sometimes he does brilliantly stupid things to try to get balanced again," I concluded. "Things he wouldn't ever think of otherwise."

House nodded and was silent.

"I could end it," he said, "tell them to go back to where they came from. They'd be Attendings anywhere they wanted and the best in their fields in a few years. They're young, they'd bounce back from my _tender _training."

"Not a chance," I said and could see from his expression that he agreed. "They're just getting _good_. You want to see what they can do and they're never going to get there without_ you_ pushing them."

House's arms dropped to the ground and he lay there like some kind of martyr waiting for the axe to fall. "I've taught them everything they know," he said with a bite to the words that expressed his distaste for all things trite, "but it's not enough. I've got to teach them everything _I _know." _And that will destroy them._

Most doctors perform rituals as a little sacrifices to the gods of chaos. They are private acts meant to ward against that x-factor that might be the difference between a patient living and dying on the table. For most of us, we do these things because we are afraid that with our next decision, our next cut, our next breath, we will be ruining somebody's life.

House's ritual had nothing to do with the fear that he might be ruining a life. It had everything to do with the fact that he was deliberately ruining three. He was under no delusions that somehow Chase, Cameron and Foreman would come out just fine in the end. He was too smart for that.

I left the hospital that night without saying another word. I should have been disturbed by the conversation I had just had. Or, at least, I should have been sad for the man who was my friend when I didn't want one. But, blame those damn hormone injections I guess, part of me was happy.

House didn't care about much in the world. But his three protégés had wheedled their way into him. He cared about them. Probably more than he knew. And still, day by day, case by case, and with every snide remark and cutting comment he was sacrificing them on the altar of humanity. And that meant that somewhere, beneath it all, he believed that the world was worth the sacrifice. And that, if nothing else, meant he had hope.


End file.
